Heal
by Pari-chan
Summary: "Sometimes, when I sleep," Daryl starts, after a long pause. "When I blink? I see him." The piece of torn fabric he's been toying with tears again between his fingers. Beneath long strands of hair his eyes look troubled. "He just won't go away." - Set just after his escape from the Sanctuary, Daryl tries to reconcile himself with his past. *CONTAINS FLASHBACKS TO NEGAN NON-CON*


He doesn't stop eating for hours. For times of apparent scarcity there seemed almost _too much_ food, too wide a selection, though he suspects between mouthfuls of canned peaches that his up-to-then diet of dog-food sandwiches would make even the smallest offerings look like a feast. He rips through can after can of _whatever_ , guzzles down the entire jug of instant lemonade in front of him, feeling more and more like himself with every morsel. He's guttural, and surely not a pretty sight for onlookers as he scoffs down his servings with primitive vigour and complete disregard for mess. He's halfway through a box of stale pop-tarts when a stubborn ray of orange sunlight, reflected into his left eye off the vacant TV-screen, finally causes him enough to raise his head from the table- and realise with perplexity that it's sundown. As if woken from a stupor, he suddenly notices the lack of voices coming from outside the house. The murmur of conversation, the background noise that had filtered through the windows when he'd first taken his seat at the table, was now disturbingly absent.

He's up from the table before he knows it, dimly registering the splitting _slap_ of his chair falling backwards onto the wooden floor. His hands grope wildly at an invisible crossbow, then fumble for an invisible gun and knife in empty pockets. His heart drums in his chest, in his ears, and his eyes dart between the room's every crevice. Defenceless, he instinctively enters stealth mode, edging around the large oak table and flattening himself against the wall beside the living room doorway. Then there are footsteps, heavy ones- _male_ \- coming up to the front door and he feels his fingers tighten around the butter knife he'd grabbed from the table. There is no thought process. There's only the sound of the door _clicking_ open and boots on the landing, and-

"Don't," he hears himself warn, in a voice that sounds too hoarse even for him. For a second all he registers is heavy breathing, his own and someone else's, and the adrenaline soaring back through his veins like a returning guest. The lack of movement makes him blink, look down, and he realises modicum by modicum that there's a throat beneath his forearm, a torso against his torso, an arm pinned to the wall by his free hand. There's a pair of eyes that stare back at him in surprise, before flitting down to the floor.

"Daryl," comes an apologetic voice. "It's me."

But Daryl knows who it is now, and jumps back from the grip as recognition floods his brain.

"I told them it had to be me," Rick says, adjusting himself and leaning down slowly to pick up the bags he'd dropped. "I should have knocked, announced myself. I'm sorry."

"S'fine," Daryl says, shaking his head a little. "I… Didn't mean to-" his nods at the wall-space where he'd pinned Rick.

"Oh, you didn't?" Rick humours, smile edging the corners of his mouth as he places the bags on the counter. "That's a relief. Too bad there's only another couple-hundred trying."

Daryl's 'laugh' lifts the corners of his mouth.

"More food?" He asks, approaching the counter. "Think I've had enough."

"Damn near cleaned us out, yeah," Rick says, but his tone is light. He pulls a clean shirt from the bag. "Shower first, will you?" Daryl snatches it out of his hand.

"What is it with you people telling me to shower?" he protests. "Just got this one, anyway," he says, picking the fabric of his grey shirt.

"Most people have more than one."

Daryl scoffs- "hmph"- and moves over to the other side of the room to perch on the window-sill. Outside, the darkening pavements are deserted. In the rare, relatively-peaceful moments, these sunset-basked streets had hosted tender exchanges of days, cigarettes on the porches, kids milking the last drops of sunlight to play with interesting salvage picked up on runs. At the distant perimeter of the western wall, he catches dots of flame tracing around the boundary. He can't stop thinking that at any moment, the paths of any one of those flames could be halted.

"I'll go on watch," he says, jerking upright. He tries to hide the wince as his ribs sting in protest. Instinctively reaching for his phantom weapons, he grimaces when he realises again that they're gone. "Still no weapons?"

No answer. When he turns to look at Rick he finds a set of blues staring right back at him. It's not a challenge, or a plea. It's just a stare, and it makes Daryl shrink a little under its spotlight. He'd never been able to hold Rick's gaze for long.

"Sorry," Rick says, finally, breaking the silence and the eye contact and swallowing the wad in his throat. "Just- sorry."

"When'd'you start apologising so much?" Daryl asks, meaning to undercut the sudden thickness in the room, but they can both pin-point the exact moment the apologies started, and picturing it makes Daryl's chest burn, stomach swirl. Rick blinks, looks down and nods.

"I should've come," he says, voice weak. "Should've been _me_ , not Carl, not Jesus." He averts his gaze to the window, now refusing to meet Daryl's eye. They're glazed, wet, tinged orange as they fix themselves on the Alexandria streets. "I just… wasn't _myself_ , I-" He forces himself to look at Daryl. "I let you down."

"Shut up," Daryl says, because he can feel the sudden thickness in his throat and there's no way he's crying now, not in his fresh clothes and his spacious house, surrounded by his people. Not after that damned good meal. "You couldn't. I know you couldn't. Not just then."

"But I _could've_ , that's the thing." Rick says, mouths as his voice fails him, imploring Daryl for forgiveness with wide eyes. "I just _didn't_. I was gonna… was gonna give _him_ everything. Half of everything- more. I thought it was the only way, the only way we'd keep our lives, all of us." He shakes his head, eyes troubled. "I was _scared_. Terrified. Tell you the truth I still am."

"Yeah," Daryl says, trying to keep his mind from flashing back to the sanctuary. _God, what a name._ "I am too." His stomach churns, and he's not sure whether its hot with fury, or sludgy with dead recollection.

"When you're ready," Rick starts, stepping a stride closer. Daryl looks up at him. "If you're ever ready, if you ever want to talk about it, I'm… I'm _here_."


End file.
